


Diogenes

by rusty_armour



Category: Sherlock (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusty_armour/pseuds/rusty_armour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an unusual clue turns up during the course of an investigation, Lestrade is thrown into a world he never knew existed and experiences emotions he never thought he’d feel again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diogenes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts).



> Some spoilers for “A Study in Pink” ( _Sherlock_ ), “The Truth” ( _The X-Files_ ), and _The X-Files: I Want to Believe_.
> 
> This was written for [second_skin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin) who was generous enough to bid on this story at qldfloodauction. Her prompt was the following: “ _…I would like somehow for Mycroft to be involved in the British version of an X-Files type situation. In my cracky head canon, I know Mycroft has his hands in all manner of super top secret alien and supernatural dealings for the British government._ ” I hope I’ve managed to fulfill [second_skin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin)'s wishes on at least some level. I can honestly say that the organization Mycroft runs is _so_ super top secret that I _still_ haven’t learned its location.
> 
> A big thanks goes out to _doodle, who not only donated her Britpicking services through help_nz but was kind enough to provide a thorough beta as well. This story is in _much_ better shape than it was originally because of her. I would also like to thank bamf_hbic, who provided the screencap I used for the fic banner.
> 
> With great power comes great responsibility. Thankfully, I have neither. _Sherlock_ and its characters are owned by other people, though I feel fortunate to have been allowed to play in this wonderful sandbox.

Lestrade stared fixedly at the object clamped between his thumb and forefinger. It was just over three centimetres long, vaguely cylindrical, and seemed to be made out of some sort of metal. The surface was entirely smooth, and Lestrade hadn’t been able to find any marks, dents, openings, or any other indication of what purpose the object might serve. If Lestrade had found it on the pavement, he would have assumed it was a pellet from an air rifle or similar type of weapon, but he hadn’t found it on the pavement. In fact, he hadn’t found it at all. It was the pathologist who had made the discovery when performing the post-mortem on the victim of Lestrade’s latest case.

The pathologist had found the object buried under the skin of the victim’s forearm when she’d noticed the neat row of stitches and a nearly indiscernible lump. She had called Lestrade down to the mortuary as soon as she’d extracted the object and it had been in Lestrade’s possession ever since.

Lestrade didn’t know what the object was: it could be the key to solving the case or it might prove to be nothing. However, he suspected that it must have _some_ significance because it was so odd. In his experience, things that didn’t add up required closer attention.

Lestrade was debating whether he should text Sherlock when he heard a noise outside his office. He froze, instantly on the alert. It was late and, the last time he’d checked, no one else was around. He was pretty sure that even the cleaners had gone home for the night. For a brief moment, Lestrade wondered if it could be Sherlock – if Sherlock had somehow deduced that he needed help with his case. Then Lestrade dismissed the idea. Despite the sound that had reached his ears, Lestrade had a feeling that this visitor was trying to be furtive. Sherlock didn’t usually sneak into his office: he marched in as if he owned it.

Still clutching the object in his hand, Lestrade was rising from his desk when he saw the three men through his office window. Even though they were dressed in the right attire, Lestrade knew they weren’t with Scotland Yard. Not only did he not recognize them but their body language seemed wrong. Lestrade quickly grabbed his phone and called security. He heard several rings on the other end, but there was no answer. Lestrade swore under his breath and dropped the object into his jacket pocket. He was searching his desk for anything he might use as a weapon when the men filed into his office.

“How did you get in here?” Lestrade asked. “What do you want?”

“I think you know why we’re here,” one of the men said. His eyes flitted from Lestrade’s face to the pair of scissors Lestrade was wielding in his hand. He was an American with a crew cut and an almost military bearing. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

Lestrade had a pretty good idea what ‘it’ was as the timing hardly seemed like a coincidence, but he feigned ignorance all the same. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but security is going to be here in – ”

“No, they won’t,” the American said. “I’m afraid they’re a little tied up at the moment, but that’s okay. You’re the one we want to talk to.”

Lestrade’s grip on the scissors tightened. “And if I don’t feel like chatting?”

“Oh, I think we can make a pretty convincing argument.” The American nodded at his associates, who pulled out guns.

“You know, it’s guys like you who give American tourists a bad name.” Another man with an insolent smile, and rather prominent nose, had just appeared in the doorway of Lestrade’s office. Lestrade wasn’t sure how he’d managed to sneak up on them, but he could tell by the accent that his latest guest was also from the States.

To his credit, the man with the crew cut didn’t whirl around, though he closed his eyes and sighed. “Mulder.”

“Hi, Swartzky.” Mulder moved forward, stepping between the two men with the guns. “You should have told me you were coming to London. I would have rolled out the red carpet, arranged a tour of the city.”

Swartzky scowled. “Starting with the bottom of the Thames?”

Mulder tutted and shook his head. “This is what I’m talking about. You’re offered hospitality and you complain. Typical. What must Detective Inspector Lestrade think?”

Swartzky snorted. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is waving a pair of scissors at me. I don’t think he understands the meaning of hospitality.”

“He can’t help it,” Mulder said. “He’s British. He’s reserved. I’m sure he’s only waving those scissors around because you barged in here, unannounced, and started barking out orders.”

“That and these are the closest thing I have to a dangerous weapon,” Lestrade muttered.

Mulder flashed a cheerful smile at Swartzky. “Great sense of humour too, though he’s not kidding about the scissors. That’s why it always pays to do some research before you travel. I knew he wouldn’t have a gun, which is why I came prepared.”

Swartzky’s forehead furrowed. “What?”

Lestrade was also confused, but he’d at least noticed the headset in Mulder’s ear, so he wasn’t surprised when Mulder called for backup.

“Scully, it’s showtime,” Mulder said.

Swartzky’s eyes widened. “Shoot him. Shoot him now.”

Swartzky’s men pointed their guns at Mulder, who was reaching inside his jacket to pull out what appeared to be a pair of night vision goggles. Lestrade only had an instant to process this latest development before all the lights went out. There was silence for a few seconds, and then Swartzky’s men opened fire.

Lestrade dropped to the floor and took cover under his desk. If he was going to make it out of his office alive, it might help if he wasn’t hit by any stray bullets. When the gunfire stopped, Lestrade wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or even more alarmed, especially as it was replaced by the sound of three thuds that Lestrade could feel through the floor.

Lestrade tensed as he heard movement by his desk. He was getting ready to pounce on his would-be attacker when Mulder’s voice whispered to him in the dark.

“I need you to trust me, Lestrade.”

Lestrade squinted. He thought he could just make out the lens of Mulder’s night vision goggles as the man crouched in front of him. “Why should I trust you?” Lestrade asked. “For all I know, you’re planning to kill me as well. You’re obviously here for the same reason they are.” He tilted his head, listening carefully. “What did you do to them? Are they dead?”

“No, just unconscious,” Mulder said, “but it won’t last for long. I had to split one dose between them.”

“One dose? One dose of what?”

Mulder grabbed Lestrade’s wrist. “We don’t have time for this. We need to go. _Now_.”

Lestrade yanked his wrist away. “You still haven’t given me a reason – ”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mulder said.

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s mixed up in this?”

“He sent me here to find you. He told me my main objective was to ensure your safety.”

It was a lot harder to tell if people were lying when you couldn’t read their body language, but Mulder sounded sincere. Also, from what little information Lestrade had managed to gather over the years, he knew trust wasn’t something that came easily to Mycroft Holmes: everyone was the enemy until surveillance and extensive background checks proved otherwise. It was almost six months after meeting the man that Lestrade had even learned his name – and that was only because Lestrade had arrested his brother for drug possession. If Mulder knew his name then Mycroft Holmes must have taken him into his confidence. Of course, it could also mean that Mulder had had enough dealings with Mycroft Holmes to have learned his name and hadn’t earned his trust at all. However, as his only other choice was to remain in his pitch-black office with three dangerous men, it was a chance Lestrade was just going to have to take.

“Okay,” Lestrade said. “Get us out of here.”

Mulder grasped Lestrade’s arm and helped him to his feet. “Just out of curiosity, you haven’t found a cylindrical object that’s silver and about an inch in length, have you?”

Lestrade smiled grimly to himself. “Yes, I have it.”

  


  
Lestrade clutched Mulder’s jacket in his fist as Mulder led him out of his office and through the building. Mulder kept up a fast pace, only slowing down when Lestrade stumbled on the stairs. Then, just before they reached the main entrance, the power returned. Lestrade was momentarily blinded again by the glare of the lights. Forgetting about Mulder’s partner for an instant, Lestrade wondered if he might be hallucinating when he saw the beautiful redhead standing outside the stairwell. However, when Mulder broke into a smile, Lestrade remembered that call on his headset and knew the woman must be real. Unfortunately, Lestrade didn’t receive a proper introduction because Mulder and the redhead were heading out of the building. It wasn’t until they had climbed into the back of a chauffeured black BMW – the first clear indication that Mycroft Holmes was, indeed, behind all of this – that Mulder’s partner extended her hand.

“Dana Scully,” the woman said. “You must be our assignment.”

Noting yet another American accent, Lestrade shook Scully’s hand. “So it would seem,” he said. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Nice to meet you.” Scully’s eyes darted to Mulder. “Do you have it?”

Mulder nodded. “Yes, it’s in the right pocket of DI Lestrade’s jacket.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “How do you – ?”

“I’ve seen you touch that pocket twice,” Mulder said, “so I assume that’s where you put it.”

 _Of course_ , Lestrade thought. _Why am I surprised? He works for Sherlock’s brother_. “So, where are we heading? An empty warehouse? A deserted factory?”

“No,” Mulder said. “I’m sorry.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Sorry? Why are you sorry? It’s a welcome change if you ask me.”

Mulder grimaced. “You might not feel that way in a minute.”

Lestrade’s brow creased. “Why? Where are we going?”

Mulder sighed. “That’s the problem. You’re not supposed to know.”

Lestrade winced as he felt something sharp prick the back of his neck. His head whipped around to Scully, who was holding a syringe in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Scully said, and she grabbed Lestrade’s arm as he began to pitch forward. Lestrade tried to shrug off Scully’s hand, but he found it a struggle just to keep awake. Then his eyelids slid shut, and he was thrust into darkness again.

  


  
When Lestrade managed to pry his eyes open, he was greeted by a surreal sight. Mycroft Holmes was sitting by his bedside with a brown tabby purring in his lap. Lestrade blinked a few times, but the image remained the same. Well, at least it wasn’t a white Persian, though Mycroft still bore an eery resemblance to Donald Pleasance – even without the bald head and the Nehru jacket.

Lestrade groaned and ran a hand across his face. “Christ. I’ve woken up in the middle of a bloody Bond film.” He gazed down at his limbs. “What? No straps? No laser beam to cut me in half?”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade in bewilderment, and Lestrade jerked his head at the cat. Mycroft’s expression instantly cleared and he beamed at Lestrade. “She’s the wrong breed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lestrade said. “She’s still sitting on _your_ lap.”

Instead of being offended, Mycroft positively smirked. “Now, now, Detective Inspector, I can understand why you might be feeling a little out of sorts – ”

“A _little_ out of sorts?” Lestrade raised himself up on his elbows. “You had me drugged and kidnapped!”

“Yes, that was most regrettable, though entirely necessary, I assure you,” Mycroft said. “As soon as I discovered which homicide you were investigating, I had to act quickly to ensure your safety.”

“Because of that silver pellet thing?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft nodded. “The initiator? Yes.”

Lestrade let loose a laugh. “You’re joking. The ‘initiator’? What’s that when it’s at home?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly share that information with you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade smiled to himself. He wasn’t at all surprised. “Well, can you at least give me the victim’s name and explain why this initiator was sewn into his arm?”

The hand stroking the cat stilled. “The victim was what is known as a ‘courier’. The initiator was inserted under the skin in order to ensure that it couldn’t be lost or stolen. It also contains an element that has the tendency to set off metal detectors. Fortunately, as the initiator is usually placed in an arm or leg, the courier need only tell the security guard in question that it’s a metal plate or pins that are being picked up by the detector.”

Lestrade pushed himself up further on the mattress, leaning against the bed’s metal headboard. “But airports have full-body scanners now. Security personnel would know it wasn’t a metal plate or pins.”

Mycroft scratched the cat’s head, looking pleased when the cat purred louder. “Usually couriers can avoid full-body scanners by taking an alternate route. Our courier picked up his package in Munich. From there, he took an overnight train to Paris, and then travelled to the UK via the Channel Tunnel.”

Lestrade shook his head in wonder. “So, he did all that because of this initiator and then got killed for his trouble.” He glanced sharply at Mycroft. “Do you know who killed him? Was it the same men who showed up at Scotland Yard?”

Mycroft smiled in what was probably meant to be a reassuring manner. “My people are taking care of it, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade’s forehead furrowed. “Your people? Who? The British government?”

Mycroft laughed and the cat leapt from his lap in alarm. “No, not the British government or, at least, not the British government you’re thinking of. The minor position I hold is meant to conceal my true role.”

Lestrade knew it was wiser not to ask, but innate curiosity was one reason why he had become a detective. “So, what’s your _true_ role, then?”

Mycroft folded his hands neatly in his lap and studied Lestrade for a moment before answering. “I run an extremely covert organization called Diogenes, which specializes in all that is strange and unusual.”

Lestrade wondered if he could have possibly heard that correctly. “Strange and unusual? Do you mean the paranormal?”

“Yes, among other things,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade slouched against the headboard, trying to absorb what Mycroft had just told him. “So, if you’re brokering some trade agreement in Uzbekistan – ?”

“I am, in fact, brokering some trade agreement in Uzbekistan – for at least part of my visit. The rest of the time is devoted to Diogenes business.” Mycroft bent down to pet the cat that was rubbing against his leg. However, instead of returning to Mycroft’s lap, the cat jumped on the bed.

“Diogenes,” Lestrade said. “Isn’t he the bloke with the lamp?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why, yes, Detective Inspector. Diogenes of Sinope was a Greek philosopher who carried a lamp in daylight, looking for an honest man. This organization takes its name from Diogenes because it also seeks the truth.”

Lestrade reached out to pet the cat as she sniffed his hand. “Seeks the truth or buries it?”

A look that might have been anger flashed in Mycroft’s eyes. “Diogenes does not engage in cover-ups.”

Despite that rare flicker of emotion from Mycroft, Lestrade pressed on. “But you don’t exactly make anything you _un_ cover public knowledge, do you?” he said.

Mycroft sighed. “The secrets we maintain are in the best interests of the public. It’s for their protection.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Your definition of ‘protection’ leaves a bit to be desired.”

“Yes, I can see why you might feel that way,” Mycroft said. “You really do have my sincerest apologies for the drastic measures we were forced to take.”

Lestrade looked away from Mycroft. He wasn’t in the mood for apologies. “So what happens now? I assume I don’t have to worry about a bullet to the head, so what’s it going to be instead? Brainwashing?”

Mycroft snorted in amusement. “No, nothing as crude as that. There are some forms you’ll need to sign, but they can wait until morning.”

“I’d rather sign those forms now, if it’s all the same to you,” Lestrade said. “It’s been a very long day, and I’d really like to go home.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. You need to stay here for the time being.”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft in disbelief. “I don’t have time for a safe house. I’m in the middle of a case.”

“The courier’s death is no longer your concern,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “As I’m investigating his _murder_ , I’d say it was very much my concern.”

Mycroft frowned. “Ah, forgive me. I thought you understood. This is no longer a police matter. Diogenes will be taking over the investigation.”

Lestrade rose swiftly from the bed, swaying slightly as he fought the remaining vestiges of the drug in his system. “Let me get this straight. You plan to keep me prisoner here _and_ steal my case?”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. “I’d prefer to think of you as a guest. As for the investigation into this poor man’s murder, Scotland Yard just isn’t equipped to handle it.”

Lestrade’s hands curled into fists. “You can’t just make me disappear. People will notice I’ve gone missing – your brother in particular.”

“An email has already been sent to your superiors explaining the necessary details,” Mycroft said. “If anyone asks, you’re on a two-week course in Manchester.”

“Two _weeks_!” Lestrade shouted. “You expect me to stay here that long?”

Another emotion danced behind Mycroft’s eyes, but Lestrade couldn’t identify it. “My dear Detective Inspector, I’m hoping Diogenes can resolve this unfortunate situation in the next few days. What you do with the remainder of that fortnight is entirely up to you. As you’ve barely taken any time off since your wife died, I would suggest a well-earned rest.”

“A rest,” Lestrade said. “You think I need a rest.” Mycroft made him sound like some old race horse that had to be put out to pasture. And Mycroft could do it too – with an email, a text, or a phone call. But that’s what Lestrade’s life had become about the last few years: words. Empty words. It was less about catching criminals and trying to make a difference and more about HR and PR. His promotion had been made official with a brief note typed under a fancy letterhead, while his wife’s death had been marked by some doctor’s messy scrawl on a medical certificate.

Lestrade could feel the fury welling up inside of him. Apparently, it was something Mycroft had been able to detect, as he was now rising from his chair.

“As you pointed out before, it’s been a long day,” Mycroft said. “I bid you goodnight.”

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, then. Piss off. And take Thunderball with you.”

“Thunderball?” Mycroft asked. Then he followed Lestrade’s cold glare to the bed, where his cat was sleeping. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He scooped the cat up in his arms and left without another word. The door had barely closed behind him when Lestrade picked up the chair and hurled it across the room.

  


  
When Lestrade woke the next morning, he was surprised to discover that he actually felt rested. Then, as he looked across the room, he was even more surprised to see the assortment of items that had been placed on a table. There was a fresh change of clothing, towels, and a number of toiletries, including his usual brand of razor, shampoo, and toothpaste. Lestrade knew he should probably find it creepy, but, as a shower seemed like the best thing in the world next to a full pot of coffee, he could only manage gratitude.

When Lestrade re-emerged in a bathrobe he’d found behind the bathroom door, the coffee he’d been craving had joined the other items on the table. There was also a tray that smelled like breakfast. However, unlike the last time, Lestrade now knew who his benefactor was.

“Morning, Red.” Lestrade gave Scully a cheeky wink and she blushed. “Are you responsible for the rest of this as well?”

Scully glanced at the objects on the table. “No, they must have been left here during the night.”

“But you did bring me breakfast,” Lestrade said.

Scully smiled. “I thought it was the least I could do after last night. I really am sorry, Greg. Is it okay if I call you ‘Greg’?”

Lestrade grinned. “If that’s bacon I smell, you can call me anything you’d like.”

Scully gazed at Lestrade thoughtfully. “You’re very forgiving, Greg.”

“Well, you know what they say about the way to a man’s heart,” Lestrade said. Then he noticed the gold band on Scully’s left finger as she poured him a cup of coffee. “But I suppose you know that already.”

Scully smiled again as she lifted the plate from the tray and set it down on the table. “Actually, Mulder cooks more than I do – and that’s not very often. We eat out a lot more than we should.”

 _Mulder? Really?_ Then Lestrade remembered the way Mulder’s face had lit up when he’d caught sight of Scully and it all made sense. Lestrade walked over to the table and sat down, nodding his head at the other chair in a silent invitation to Scully. “I’m assuming you both met through work,” he said as Scully joined him at the table.

“Because we call each other by our last names?” Scully asked. “Yes, we met several years ago when I was assigned to the X-Files.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “The X-Files?”

“A department at the FBI that specialized in cases dealing with unusual or unexplained phenomenon,” Scully said.

Lestrade, who was all too familiar with budgetary constraints and dwindling resources, had a pretty good idea of the challenges a department like the X-Files must have faced. “Was the FBI forced to shut you down? Is that why you’re here?”

Scully’s lips twitched. “It’s a little more complicated than that. The reason we left had more to do with office politics than office downsizing.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said.

The amusement continued to linger in Scully’s eyes. “We were in our tropical paradise when Mycroft tracked us down and offered us gainful employment.”

Lestrade stared at Scully, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “You were living in a tropical paradise and you came _here_ to work for _him_?” He paused, lowering his voice. “By choice?”

Scully laughed. “Yes, it was by choice. It was exactly what we were both looking for and it offered us a fresh start, a chance for a new beginning. Besides, Mulder and I were getting bored.”

Lestrade was still skeptical. “I would have thought that, with your background and experience, there would have been some other job you could have accepted – _any_ other job you could have accepted.”

Scully rested her chin on her hand, studying Lestrade. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

“His own brother doesn’t like him.” Lestrade took a sip of his coffee, glad of an excuse to break eye contact with the former FBI agent.

“Well, _we_ like him,” Scully said. “He’s been very good to us.”

“Working for Mycroft Holmes pays well, does it?” Lestrade asked.

Scully frowned, looking taken aback. “It’s not about the money. It never has been. And when I say he’s been good to us, I mean it. Mycroft has always been very supportive. He encourages Mulder to pursue his own projects outside of Diogenes. He’s even funded a couple of them from his own pocket. But even if Mycroft hadn’t been so generous, he would still be a pussy-cat compared to some of the people I’ve worked for.” Scully’s eyes widened when she realized what had just come out of her mouth. “Uh, don’t tell him I said that.”

Lestrade grinned over a forkful of baked beans. “It might be too late if he’s bugged the room. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Lestrade was sure Scully would insist that Mycroft would never do such a thing, so he was surprised when she put her head in her hands.

Scully’s description of Mycroft reminded Lestrade of one question that had been nagging him since the previous night. “Why does Mycroft have a cat? Is it for some experiment he’s conducting?”

Scully lowered her hands from her face. “He claims he got the cat because his doctor told him he had to lower his blood pressure. As it’s been scientifically proven that owning a pet can lower blood pressure, he decided it might be an effective way to deal with the problem as it doesn’t involve drugs.”

“You don’t believe him?” Lestrade asked.

“His PA told me that Mycroft heard the cat crying in an alley beside his brother’s favourite restaurant,” Scully said. “He made his driver stop the car so he could go into the alley to get her.”

Lestrade’s fork paused in mid-air. “Ah, so you think Mycroft rescued the cat out of the goodness of his heart. Doesn’t explain why he kept it, though.”

“I think he’s lonely,” Scully said.

Lestrade almost dropped his fork. “What?”

Scully smiled, but there was a deep sadness in her eyes. “He’s a workaholic. He spends almost all of his time at Diogenes or fulfilling his other commitments to the British government. As you’ve already pointed out, his own brother doesn’t like him, and I’m not sure if he has any friends outside of work.”

Lestrade set down his fork. “So? Maybe that’s enough for him. Not everyone needs a large social circle.”

“He kept the cat, Greg, and I don’t think it was because of his blood pressure.” Scully rose from the table. “Mycroft would like to see you in his office. I can ask someone to escort you there when you’re ready – ”

“I’m ready now,” Lestrade said. He quickly lifted his napkin to his lips and stood. Then he blushed when he realized he was still in his bathrobe. “Umm…just give me a couple of minutes to get dressed and I’ll join you.”

  


  
As Lestrade peered around the open door to Mycroft’s office, he couldn’t see any sign of its usual occupant. He was about to turn and go back to his room when he heard a bump, then a groan, then Mycroft’s voice coming from under his desk.

“Thunderball, let go of that. It’s bad enough you had to knock half my papers to the floor, without you ripping them to shreds. You have a perfectly adequate scratching post and cat toys and, yet, you insist on playing with all of my possessions instead.”

Lestrade had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Get off of that. Detective Inspector Lestrade needs to sign it. Really, Thunderball. I can only imagine what the poor man must be thinking right now.”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open, and Mycroft’s head popped up from behind the desk.

“There were two sets of footfalls approaching my office, but I heard only one set – a set in high heels – walk away,” Mycroft said. “If only one person was planning to speak to me then why were there two sets of footfalls?”

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Because the first person was escorting the second person here.”

Mycroft smiled. “And as you’re the only guest we have at the moment, I deduced that you were the set of footfalls that decided to stay.” Mycroft stood up, motioning to the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “Please. Sit down, Detective Inspector.”

“If you’ll stop calling me ‘Detective Inspector’,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Lestrade sat down in the chair. “If I’m really meant to be on holiday, you should be calling me ‘Lestrade’ or ‘Greg’.” His eyes fell on Mycroft’s cat as she leapt on the desk. “And you can stop calling her ‘Thunderball’. I think you’ve made your point.”

Mycroft’s brow creased. “But that’s her name. What else would I call her?”

“No, that was just a joke – and not even a very good one – so you can go back to calling her by her real name,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft smirked. “I can’t. She doesn’t have one.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“I hadn’t named her before last night. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Out of sheer desperation, I had taken to calling her ‘Cat’. But that’s not necessary now, is it, Thunderball?” Mycroft scratched under Thunderball’s chin, and Thunderball started purring.

Lestrade crossed his arms. “But Thunderball isn’t a cat’s name. It’s a book and film title. There’s got to be something else you can use.”

Mycroft shook his head. “The name suits her, and it amuses me, De-Greg. I won’t change it.”

Lestrade shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s your cat.” Secretly, he was pleased that Mycroft was keeping the name. He was even more pleased that Mycroft had chosen to call him by his first rather than last name, though he wasn’t sure why it should matter to him one way or another _what_ Mycroft called him.

As if he’d been reading Lestrade’s mind, Mycroft said, “While we’re on the subject of names, I would prefer it if you’d call me ‘Mycroft’. I realize you haven’t called me anything up to this point, but, when the time comes, ‘Mycroft’ would be best.”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft, stunned. Was the man actually flustered? The great Mycroft Holmes was certainly blushing. That much was obvious. “Okay, then, _Mycroft_. I believe there are some forms you need me to sign.”

There were eight forms and 23 individual sections that required Lestrade’s signature. Lestrade read the first two sections carefully then lost patience and skimmed through the rest.

“I apologize for the extreme tediousness of such an exercise, but these forms are absolutely essential.” Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped on the desk. “No doubt you have questions.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Why, you’re in Diogenes, of course.”

Lestrade scowled. “Yes, I realize that, but _where_ is it?”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly divulge that information.”

“But I just signed eight bloody forms!” Lestrade cried. “What’s it going to take to get me clearance?”

Mycroft gave Lestrade a sympathetic look. “A lot more than that, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say, you’ll be perfectly safe down here.”

Lestrade sat up in his chair. “ _Down here_?” He had noticed the lack of windows, but hadn’t been sure if it was a design feature for the whole building or just one section.

Mycroft chuckled quietly. “Yes, Greg. You’re several metres underground. That much I _can_ tell you.”

Lestrade found he was struggling again not to laugh. “May I see the shark tank or is it classified as well?”

Mycroft sighed. “I was going to give you a tour of the rest of the facility first, but I suppose if we hurry we might be in time for the morning feeding.” When Lestrade gaped at him, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That was a joke, though, perhaps, not a very good one.”

Lestrade laughed weakly. “Right. A joke. Ha, ha.”

Mycroft rose quickly from his chair. “Come on. I’d better give you that tour as it seems to be the only way I’ll be able to convince you that I’m _not_ a Bond villain.”

Although Mycroft made the mistake of taking Lestrade to the labs first, he was able to strengthen his case when he showed him the kitchen, lounge, infirmary, and library. Lestrade was especially impressed by the library, with its deep upholstered armchairs and tall wooden bookcases that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

“Please feel free to borrow anything you wish from the collection,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade managed to tear his eyes away from the shelves. “Thanks. I might just do that.”

Lestrade did more than that. He began to spend a lot of time ensconced in the library, with a book in his hands and, more often than not, a cat in his lap, as it seemed that Thunderball had free rein of the unrestricted areas of the building.

Mycroft made a point of visiting the library himself whenever he was available. At first, it seemed to be simply to check on Lestrade, but, soon, he and Lestrade were having animated discussions about the books Lestrade was choosing from the shelves. Mycroft even issued an invitation to dinner in his Diogenes quarters, and Lestrade found himself accepting. However, the visitor Lestrade received in the library the following day wasn’t interested in having a friendly chat or sharing a meal with him. He shook Lestrade from his doze, standing over him imperiously as Lestrade started awake. Lestrade blinked at the figure in front of him in astonishment.

“Sherlock? How did you get in here?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, I’ve known about this place for ages. Sneaking in here was child’s play.”

Lestrade nodded grimly. “Of course it was. You could probably have done the whole thing blindfolded, right?”

“Well, as I had to travel down a dark tunnel for most of the way, I did, in a sense, do it blindfolded,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned, almost looking disappointed. “Why, I’m here to rescue you, of course.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock in confusion. “Rescue me from what?”

“From Diogenes,” Sherlock said. “From all of this.” He gave an expansive wave of his arm, gazing at the contents of the library in disgust.

Lestrade’s grip tightened on _The Big Knockover_. “There are men trying to kill me, Sherlock. I was brought here for my own protection. Besides, I like it here.”

Sherlock’s head turned sharply. “You _like_ it here?” He bent over and grabbed Lestrade by the chin. “Let me see your eyes. He’s obviously drugged or brainwashed you.”

“Arrgh! Let go of me!” Lestrade pushed Sherlock away and stood up, putting the armchair between them. “How did you know I was here, anyway? The official story is that I’m taking a course in Manchester.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, please. Even Donovan saw through that.”

“Really?” Lestrade couldn’t help feeling proud of his sergeant.

“Yes, apparently you won’t even leave for a dentist’s appointment without informing her, so she thought it was very strange that you would go off to Manchester without a phone call or, at least, an email.” Sherlock picked up the novel from the armchair and began flipping through it curiously. “Of course, I was able to observe that you had been forced to make a rather hasty exit from Scotland Yard. I can’t help wondering if Mycroft is getting sloppy or if he wanted me to know what had happened.”

Lestrade didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “How did you work that out?”

Sherlock dropped the novel back on the armchair and beamed at Lestrade. “One of the first things to catch my eye was the pair of scissors on your desk. Why on earth would you have needed a pair of scissors? I wouldn’t have even known you had any if I hadn’t rifled through your desk in the past.”

Not surprised by Sherlock’s confession, Lestrade said, “Maybe I wore a new shirt that day and forgot to remove the label.”

Sherlock shook his head. “If that were the case, the scissors would have either been placed back in the drawer after use or buried under case files and paperwork. You removed the scissors that night – and in something of a hurry, judging by the untidy state of the drawer. But why would you possibly be in such a rush for a pair of scissors?” Sherlock leaned against the back of the armchair, removing the distance Lestrade had attempted to place between them. “I think you felt threatened and reached for the first thing you might conceivably use as a weapon. I know that at least one gun was fired. Despite the best effort of Mycroft’s team, I found the spot on the wall where a bullet had lodged itself, as the paint and plaster over the hole were new. You also took cover under your desk when the gun, or guns, was fired. If I hadn’t found that strand of silver hair, the fibre from one of your cheap suits would have told me that.”

“My suits aren’t cheap,” Lestrade grumbled. “They’re just not posh.” He ran a hand across his face. “What makes you think Mycroft was behind any of this?”

“Because Scotland Yard was told, in no uncertain terms, that it would no longer be handling the homicide you had started investigating,” Sherlock said. “That, coupled with your convenient disappearance, reeked of Mycroft’s handiwork. However, you no longer need be a prisoner here. I can get you out.”

Lestrade was about to speak, when he felt a small furry body press against his legs. “Hello, Thunderball. I’d wondered where you got to.” He picked up the cat, scratching her head affectionately.

Sherlock eyed Lestrade and Thunderball disdainfully. “He let you name his cat?” He lifted a hand before Lestrade could even open his mouth. “Before you ask, I knew Mycroft owned a cat because I’ve seen the tell-tale hairs on his clothing, despite his careful efforts to remove them.”

“Actually,” Lestrade said, “I was going to ask you how you knew I’d named his cat.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Because ‘Thunderball’ is a ridiculous name for a cat. Mycroft would have chosen something more scholarly or cryptic.”

“Like ‘Diogenes’?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade chucked Thunderball under the chin. “Well, the name is certainly scholarly, but cryptic? Diogenes tried to find an honest man, and this organization seeks the truth.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is _that_ what he told you? Well, you might want to remember that Diogenes was also an exile. While this building is hardly Diogenes’ tub, it is cut off from the rest of London. Mycroft even employs outcasts. He has two former FBI agents on his staff who were at one point fugitives. Not that it’s a problem for him. It’s never a problem for him because, as always, he sets himself above everyone else.”

Lestrade bit his lip. “Isn’t it a bit difficult to be above everyone else when you’re an exile several metres underground?”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade then, as he took in the cat again, his expression grew thoughtful. “He let you name his cat, which means he’s trying to make you happy. Why is he trying to make you happy? It’s hardly a prerequisite for being a prisoner here.”

“I’m his _guest_ , Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock ploughed on as if Lestrade had never spoken. “I’d say it was because he was afraid you might stop coming to me with cases if you were unhappy, but you’re just as willing to consult me when you’re grumpy and miserable, so that hardly seems a likely reason. Conclusion? He’s doing it because he _wants_ you to be happy. But why? Why should it matter to him?” Then Sherlock’s face lit up and he clapped his hands. “Of course! I was so stupid not to see it before this. It all makes sense now. It explains _everything_.”

“Explains what?” Lestrade asked. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“Sherlock, if you’re quite finished harassing my guest, perhaps you could drop by my office. There’s a little matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Lestrade’s head swivelled towards the door before he realized that Mycroft’s voice had come from a speaker in the wall.

Sherlock scowled. “I have to leave now. You can still come with me if you want.”

Although Sherlock had been a complete prat as usual, Lestrade was touched that he’d gone to the trouble of trying to rescue him. “I think I’d better stay here, but maybe you could come back again if I’m not out in a week.” When Sherlock just stood there glowering at him, Lestrade said, “I’ll go smooth things over with Mycroft while you do your Houdini routine.”

Sherlock laughed sharply. “You’re going to ‘smooth things over,’ are you? Is _that_ what they’re calling it now?”

Ignoring the gibe, Lestrade made his way to the door. “See you again soon, Sherlock.”

Unfortunately, Lestrade ended up seeing Sherlock a lot sooner than he expected.

  


  
The next day, Lestrade was walking past the infirmary on the way to the gym, when he heard panicked voices and caught sight of a flurry of activity inside. Lestrade stepped into the room, his eyes falling on the pale figure in the bed. The man was hooked up to various machines and was struggling to breathe, despite the oxygen mask. At first, Lestrade didn’t recognize who it was. Then he gave a shocked gasp and moved closer to the bed.

Mycroft instantly grabbed Lestrade’s hand, and Lestrade knew. He understood what Sherlock had been talking about in the library and he just knew. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand before he was pulled away from the bed and dragged out of the infirmary.

Mulder smiled apologetically when they were outside in the corridor. “Sorry but they need room to work.”

Lestrade craned his neck, trying to peer past Mulder’s shoulder into the infirmary. “What happened to him? What’s wrong?”

“He was exposed to some kind of airborne pathogen that was released in his office – his, uh, other office outside of Diogenes,” Mulder said. “Thankfully, his PA was running an errand, so she wasn’t exposed.”

Lestrade’s eyes focused back on Mulder. “But Mycroft…He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

Mulder sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Greg. We weren’t able to get a sample, so we can only guess what we might be dealing with and how much damage it could cause.”

“Get Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “If anyone can find the information you need, it’s him.”

“Isn’t Sherlock the punk kid brother?” Mulder asked. “I can’t get him involved in this. I shouldn’t have even told you anything.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “Sherlock snuck in here yesterday, so he probably knows more about Diogenes than you do.”

“You’re kidding,” Mulder said.

“No, I’m really not.” Lestrade took Mulder’s arm and steered him towards the lifts. “Go see him, Mulder. Someone will have to inform him about Mycroft anyway, so why not kill two birds with one stone?” He hit the button for the lifts then pushed Mulder through the first door that opened. “The address is 221b Baker Street.”

“You sure are persistent,” Mulder said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“It’s my job!” Lestrade shouted as the door to the lift closed. He stared after Mulder for an instant then slumped against the wall.

Mycroft was interested in him. All the time Mycroft had chosen to spend with him probably should have made that obvious, but it had taken a more simple gesture – that hand reaching out to grip his own – to make Mycroft’s intentions clear.

Lestrade hadn’t wanted to admit it before, but he found Mycroft fascinating. More fascinating than any other man he had ever met, even Sherlock. Lestrade had initially assumed that this attraction was only cerebral in nature, that he was simply enthralled by the way this brilliant man’s mind worked. However, he was no longer able to deny that it was a physical attraction as well. His body had started to react whenever he was around Mycroft: the nervous excitement, the accelerated heartbeat, the pure unadulterated happiness that seemed to flow through him. It was shocking and completely unexpected.

It wasn’t Mycroft’s gender that was surprising, as Lestrade had realized at a fairly young age that he fancied both girls and boys. No, what surprised Lestrade was that he felt anything at all. He thought he had shut down all such emotions when his wife had died and had been convinced that they would never surface again.

Lestrade’s eyes shot back to the lifts, and he had the urge to leap inside of one and make a break for it. He didn’t know what would happen if he got caught – whether he might be locked away or shot – but he thought it might be worth it if he were spared from a deeper pain. He knew how easy it was to lose someone. He was facing the prospect of losing Mycroft before their relationship could even begin.

Lestrade pushed off the wall, relinquishing the extra support. He took a step, and then another, and then another still. However, instead of moving towards the lifts, he found he was heading back to the infirmary.

  


  
The infirmary staff was surprisingly patient with Lestrade. They allowed him to visit Mycroft and even put up with his frequent questions about their patient’s condition. Scully was also sympathetic, though she had no qualms about kicking Lestrade out of the infirmary when Mycroft took a turn for the worse.

Lestrade vented his frustration on the punching bag in the gym then went off to sulk and pace in the library. He was just sitting down in one of the armchairs to make his third attempt to read _Red Harvest_ , when the wooden panel beside the fireplace swung open and Sherlock and John popped out.

Lestrade leapt to his feet, dropping the book on the floor. “So, _that’s_ how you did it.”

“Yes, yes, there’s a secret passage connected to the tunnel. Boring and so predictably Mycroft…” Sherlock trailed off, an almost pained expression forming on his face.

John grasped Sherlock by the shoulder. “Go to him.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock said. Then he ran out of the library, his coat fluttering behind him.

“Did he find anything?” Lestrade asked. “Can he help Mycroft?”

John walked over to Lestrade, studying him closely. “When was the last time you slept?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. What day is it? It’s not always easy to tell down here.”

John looked pointedly at the clock sitting on the mantle. “And, yet, there are ways of keeping track.” He smiled gently. “Well, it didn’t take much time for you to fall for him. How long have you been down here? A week?”

“This coming from the man who moved in with the younger brother right after meeting him,” Lestrade grumbled. Then his eyes narrowed when John laughed. “So help me, John, if you don’t tell me – ”

“Sorry, sorry,” John said. “I was getting to it. Honest. Sherlock tracked down the man who poisoned Mycroft. It took some coaxing – a lot of coaxing – but Sherlock persuaded him to give us the antidote.”

Lestrade knew that he should probably find out exactly which methods of coercion Sherlock had employed, but, at that moment, he was too relieved to care. He marched out of the library, determined to get into the infirmary, no matter who was guarding the entrance. John was right behind him.

When they reached the infirmary, they were met by a startling sight. While various doctors bustled around their unconscious patient, adjusting IVs and wires, Sherlock was crouched by Mycroft’s head and was speaking to him softly. Then, to their amazement, he leaned across the bed to kiss Mycroft’s forehead.

John quickly yanked Lestrade back outside. “We weren’t here. We didn’t see that. You can’t tell Sherlock.”

Lestrade patted John’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t say a word.”

  


  
If Lestrade had possessed less experience of the world, or less experience of Sherlock, he might have thought that the touching scene he had witnessed in the infirmary represented some kind of transformation, that Sherlock had embraced his humanity at last. When Sherlock tracked him and John down in the kitchen, Lestrade didn’t need to see Sherlock’s cold, impassive features to know this wasn’t the case.

John wordlessly poured Sherlock a cup of tea, and Sherlock joined them at the table.

“I’ve solved your case,” Sherlock said. “Mulder is interrogating the murderer – the same man who poisoned Mycroft, by the way – as we speak. No doubt, he’s learning all kinds of useful information that Mycroft will wish to share with the public.”

Sherlock’s tone was sarcastic, but Lestrade couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t contain its usual bite. He really was shaken by what had happened to his brother.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as if he sensed where Lestrade’s thoughts had wandered. “I’d give you the murderer’s identity, but it would involve one of Mycroft’s lectures, which are tedious at the best of times.”

Lestrade calmly sipped his tea. “Well, as I don’t even know the identity of the victim, I suppose that’s one more secret I can live with.”

John snorted and Sherlock’s gaze grew sharper. Lestrade tried not to squirm under the penetrating stare.

“I hope there isn’t a limit to how many secrets you can tolerate because there will be a great deal more if you plan to pursue a relationship with my brother,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of warning me to stay away from Mycroft?”

Sherlock laughed. “No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Now it was Lestrade who was scrutinizing Sherlock. “You _want_ me to date your brother? Why?”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder lazily. “I can’t claim to understand it, but this thing you have with Mycroft – whatever it is – seems to make you happy,” he said. “I read somewhere – and, subsequently, failed to delete the information – that happy people are more productive in the workplace.”

Lestrade winced. “And if I’m more productive, you’ll have more cases, right?”

Sherlock grinned. “Exactly.”

John snorted again and shook his head.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

John smirked. “That’s not what you said the last time the subject came up. No, you said Lestrade worked too hard and would probably be burnt out by the age of fifty.”

Sherlock glared at John. “I recall no such conversation.”

“Oh, yes you do,” John said. “I know you haven’t managed to delete it from your internal hard drive just yet.” He turned to Lestrade. “Something else Sherlock failed to mention is that if you’re dating Mycroft, it will draw some of his brother’s attention away from him.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “As I said before, it’s a situation that will not only benefit Lestrade but several other people as well.”

“Several other people being you,” John muttered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Lestrade jumped in before he could speak. “I don’t know if I can draw his attention away from anyone. The man’s a genius, and I’m – ”

“Someone Mycroft cares about,” John said.

Lestrade bit his lip. “What if that’s not enough?”

John’s expression softened. “You know the answer. After dealing with Sherlock all these years, you _must_ know the answer: just keep him from being bored.”

Lestrade threw up his hands helplessly. “But _how_ do I do that?”

Sherlock smiled, almost looking sympathetic. “You’re a reasonably intelligent and attractive man, Lestrade. I’m sure you can work it out.”

  


  
It was a few hours before a pair of tired blue eyes opened. For an instant, Mycroft Holmes stared at his surroundings blankly. Then that sharp intelligence snapped back into place, and he was reaching up to remove the nasal cannula and trying to sit up. Lestrade caught Mycroft’s hand and gently pushed him back against his pillows.

“That needs to stay,” Lestrade said, “and so do you.” He quickly intercepted Mycroft’s hand again as it next moved towards the IV in his left arm. “And so does that.”

Mycroft apparently wasn’t used to being told what to do, as he tried to haul himself out of bed a second time. “There are responsibilities that can’t be ignored. I need –” Mycroft was cut short by a fit of coughing.

“All you need to do right now is get better. Everything else can wait.” Lestrade picked up the cup on the bedside table and guided the straw to Mycroft’s lips. When Mycroft had finished drinking, Lestrade adjusted his pillows and pulled the blankets up a little higher.

Mycroft watched the proceedings in weary bemusement. “You must have better things to do than play nursemaid, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade gazed at Mycroft sternly. “It’s ‘Greg’ and, no, I don’t. I’m on holiday, remember?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly in alarm. “I’ll speak to Mulder. He must have resolved this issue by now. I’m sure you’re no longer required to be here.”

This time, Lestrade had a hand planted on Mycroft’s chest before Mycroft could make yet another escape attempt. “And I thought Sherlock was stubborn. Jesus, Mycroft, will you stop worrying about everyone else and think about yourself for a change?”

Mycroft stared at the hand on his chest. “But you can’t wish to stay here, not if it’s safe and you’re free to go.”

“I’m not even halfway through my book,” Lestrade said. “Besides, somebody has to make sure you stay put.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m sorry. You appear to be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I’m not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.” Lestrade smiled. “I can’t say I’m doing much suffering at all at the moment.”

Mycroft swallowed, looking nervous. “Nevertheless, I can’t see how your stay could possibly be pleasant, especially if you’re spending any of it at my bedside.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lestrade said. “It could work to my advantage. It certainly levels the playing field.”

“Levels the playing field?” Mycroft asked.

In response, Lestrade leaned forward to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft gasped, but didn’t fight it, opening his lips to Lestrade’s tongue and moaning as that same tongue glided across his own.

Lestrade grinned as he broke the kiss. “So, do I have clearance for that?”

Mycroft seized Lestrade by the front of his shirt and pulled him back down again. “Yes, you have complete and total clearance, Greg.”

  



End file.
